


when there's nothing left to burn

by growlery writes (growlery)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Succubi & Incubi, Casual Sex, M/M, Virginity, consent issues inherent to the trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 23:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18398111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery%20writes
Summary: It’s Bellamy’s idea to go to a club, but Monty's fully on board. Bellamy is older and wiser and has more experience with this kind of thing, but it also just seems like a pretty solid plan. Club culture is basically designed to facilitate hooking up, and Monty can’t exactly afford to wait for The Right Person to fall into his lap now that he literally has to fuck to survive.





	when there's nothing left to burn

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a '“i just got turned into an incubus or a succubus and i’m like the least smooth and most self-conscious person on the planet so i’m literally starving because i don’t know how to seduce people” AU. BONUS POINTS IF THEY ARE A VIRGIN.' fill. it wants to become a huge obnoxious _thing_ but i reFUSE so i'm letting it go and putting it out into the world. 
> 
> a note on the tags: the sex in this fic is consensual and there's chat about consent before and during and outside of it, but sex demons. there's also some chat about the inherent skeeviness, so if that's gonna be a bad time for you, please steer clear.

It’s Bellamy’s idea to go to a club, but Monty's fully on board. Bellamy is older and wiser and has more experience with this kind of thing, but it also just seems like a pretty solid plan. Club culture is basically designed to facilitate hooking up, and Monty can’t exactly afford to wait for The Right Person to fall into his lap now that he literally has to fuck to survive.

If Monty kind of was waiting for The Right Person, had never really been interested in having sex with strangers he’s never going to see again, well. Life throws you curveballs, and sometimes those curveballs are sudden onset supernatural transformations. He’ll deal with it. 

They go to Bellamy’s favourite queer club so they can cast the metaphorical net as wide as possible and, god, there are no ways to talk about this without it sounding like the grossest thing ever. Monty is bright red and he’s not even tried to approach anyone yet. He thinks he might be sick.

“Bellamy,” he says, barely after they’ve crossed the threshold, “I think I might be sick.”

Bellamy stops immediately, turns concerned eyes on Monty. “Hey,” he says gently. “We can go at any time. We can go right now. You don’t have to do this.”

“I kind of do,” Monty says, as brightly as he can manage. “It’ll be fine, I just- can we sit down for a minute?”

Bellamy squeezes his shoulder, nods, starts scanning the booths, starts gently steering Monty towards one of them. The music is too loud for them to really talk, which Monty is glad for, because he doesn’t really know if he could make words happen right now. Bellamy doesn’t push him to talk, which Monty is also glad for; he really has no idea how he’d be coping with this without him. 

“Okay,” he shouts, a few minutes later, and without further ado, they venture out into the throng of people. 

It is, to put it mildly, a disaster.

Bellamy is a good wingman, considering how shit he is at finding people for himself, but Monty is a deer in fucking headlights and it shows. Bellamy lightly coached him before they came out, but a lot of it was unhelpful shit like _just relax_ and _be yourself_ and _you’re a fun, hot guy, Monty, you don’t need to try so hard_. 

“I need some air,” he shouts to Bellamy, after his sixth humiliatingly attempt to charm a stranger into taking him home, and stumbles out towards the smoking area.

It’s smoky air, sure, and it makes his fingers twitch for a blunt, but he breathes easier outside without the people, the pressure. He needs to give it time, keep trying, he knows all that, has been told it enough. But his hands are shaking and his chest keeps getting tighter and every time he opens his mouth he feels like the words are fighting a swarm of wasps to make it out, and he has _no idea what he’s doing_.

“Hey,” Nate Miller says, and Monty’s head snaps up. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Uh,” Monty says. His brain spins unhelpfully for a few seconds. Miller’s a friend of a bunch of friends, including Bellamy, and Monty knows him well enough to hold a conversation when they bump into each other at parties but really not well enough to confide in him his deepest, darkest secrets, which is why what makes it out of his mouth is, “Bellamy’s trying to get me laid. I’m an incubus now. Or I always was, but the ancient sex curse just activated? I'm a bit fuzzy on the details.”

Miller, to his credit, seems unfazed by Monty's rambling. “You've got Bellamy as a wingman?” he says, eyebrows raised. “You’re gonna die, man.”

That surprises a laugh out of Monty, but he says, loyally, “He’s not that bad.”

“Uh huh,” Miller says, drawing it out. “So how’s it going?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” Monty says, and it’s Miller’s turn to laugh. It lights up his entire face in a way Monty has a real hard time looking away from. It makes him want to keep talking, see if he can make Miller do that again. “I might never be able to come back here again. I might, like, die of embarrassment on the spot.”

He’s smiling, passing it off as a joke, but Miller doesn’t look convinced. “Not a big hookup guy?”

Monty spreads his hands helplessly. “I don’t believe anyone has actually, in the history of time, hooked up with someone at a club,” he tells Miller, and Miller’s eyes dance as he takes a long drag on his cigarette.

“I can personally assure you,” he says, blowing out smoke, “that’s not true.”

Monty feels hot all over. He wants to say something, anything, but the wasps are back. Miller reaches around him to stub out the cigarette, just brushing Monty’s arm as he moves back. He smiles at Monty.

“You coming?” he says, and turns to go back inside.

Monty instinctively tries to find Bellamy in the crowd, feeling out of place at Miller’s side, but there’s no sign of him that he can see. He’s about to slip away when Miller asks, “What have you been drinking?”

“Uh,” Monty says. He didn’t realise Miller meant _come with me_. He kind of shivers, pleasant. “Bravery shots, mostly.”

Miller wrinkles his nose. “How’d you like cider?” he asks, and Monty shrugs noncommittally.

Two minutes later, they’re stood in a mercifully free corner, ciders in hand. Monty feels a bit dazed.

“How,” he says, “did you manage that,” and Miller just shrugs, smirks, clinks his bottle against Monty's. 

“Cheers,” he says. He gives Monty a thoughtful once-over that makes Monty’s skin tingle. “What are we working with here? You’re pan, right?”

“Yeah,” Monty says, pleased that Miller remembered that one conversation they had about queer characters in media. Impressed, too; it had been mostly drunken yelling on Monty's part, if he's remembering right. 

“Cool,” Miller says. “Other parameters?” When Monty just looks at him blankly, Miller sort of rolls his eyes. “What are you into, Monty. As much detail as you’re comfortable with.”

Monty grimaces, and Miller’s face softens. “Hey,” he says, “it’s cool if that’s nothing. I wanna help but I’ll back off if you don’t want it.”

That takes Monty off-guard for a second; sure, he’s friends-of-friends with Miller, but friends-of-friends don’t really help each other with ancient sex curses. 

“No, that’s-” Monty sighs. “Lord knows I need all the help I can get. I just…” He lets out a long breath. “I don’t really know? I’ve never done this before.”

“Yeah, obviously,” Miller says, and Monty covers his face with his hands, because if he’s going to be judged for this, he doesn’t want to see it.

“I’ve never,” he says, “not- not anything.”

“Sure,” Miller says. “You can still know what you’re into.” There’s a sound like a huff, a soft laugh, maybe, and Miller adds, “You can stop hiding, I’m not gonna be a dick about you being a virgin.”

Monty puts his hands down. “I guess I have some idea, like, theoretically. And I’m not that fussy? I literally can’t afford to be, but also it’s not really about looks for me. I know that’s a thing people say but, like, honestly? I am,” he says, and makes a big show of spinning on his heel to take in the entire room, “attracted to eighty per cent of the people here. But how many of them are people I’d actually, you know, like?” 

He grimaces, feeling kinda weird and embarrassed, but Miller had asked, so it’s fine, and Monty tries to make himself feel it. 

Miller looks at him for a few seconds, eyebrows knit together, then he downs his drink. “Come on,” he says, and, honestly, Monty would follow Miller a lot of places, but he’s confused about the sudden change in positioning.

“Where are we going,” he asks, kind of suspiciously.

“To find Bellamy,” Miller says, “so I can yell at him and we can get out of here.”

“You had me at _get out of here_ ,” Monty says, and follows Miller out into blissful- well, not silence, but quieterness. The air’s less heavy out here, and Monty takes in a deep breath. “Why are you gonna yell at Bellamy?”

“Yeah,” comes Bellamy’s voice from behind them, “why are you gonna yell at Bellamy, Miller? Also hey, Miller.”

Monty feels relieved at the sight of him, but also something else that’s a little too close disappointment. “I think he thinks,” he says, gesturing at their surroundings, “that this was a bad idea.”

“A terrible idea,” Miller corrects, and Bellamy rolls his eyes.

“You’re welcome to take over if you think you can do any better,” he says, and then glances at Monty. “Uh, if Monty’s cool with that.”

“Monty’s cool with that,” Monty says, a little too quickly, but neither of them seem to notice his eagerness. 

“All right,” Bellamy says. “Sorry this didn’t work out, Monty.”

“It’s cool,” Monty assures him, because Bellamy is always looking out for people, offering help where he can, and Monty wants him to know it’s appreciated. Bellamy smiles at him, and Monty smiles back, his chest slowly lightening.

“Come on,” Miller says, and Monty starts to follow him out, but stops when he realises Bellamy isn’t.

“You sticking around here?” he asks, and Bellamy looks sort of significantly at Miller.

“I didn’t think I was invited,” he says, and for some reason, that makes Miller scowl.

“Of course you’re invited,” Monty says. “Uh. Wherever we’re going. Where are we going?”

Half an hour later, he’s sitting in a diner eating what is possibly the best cheeseburger of his life, across a booth from Bellamy with Miller next to him. He’s not thought about ancient sex curses in whole _minutes_.

“So what’s your big plan, Miller,” Bellamy says, ruining it in one fell swoop. Monty can’t help the groan that comes out around his burger. “We don’t have to talk about this,” Bellamy says quickly, squeezing Monty’s thigh where his hand’s been resting.

Monty reluctantly puts down his burger and swallows. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate you guys wanting to help,” he says. “It’s just that the whole thing is really fucking embarrassing and I kind of just wanna stuff myself with carbs and not think about it.” He takes in a deep breath and makes himself smile. “But I’m curious, too. What's the plan?”

“There’s no plan,” Miller says. “This isn’t a mission, Jesus.”

“It could be,” Monty says. “Mission Get Monty Laid. MGML. Has a ring to it.”

Miller rolls his eyes. “Bellamy threw you in the fucking deep end,” he says. “You said yourself you don’t know what you’re doing. I can help you out with that, teach you some moves.”

“Some _moves_?” Monty goes, absolutely delighted, and across from him, Bellamy cracks up. Miller scowls.

“Go fuck yourselves,” Miller says, and Monty poorly quashes another laugh.

“No, no, that’s really, that’s probably really helpful, actually,” he says. He bites his lip, feels the smile fighting against it. “Uh. What kind of moves?”

“This kind,” Miller says, and suddenly he’s in Monty’s space, not crowding him but leaning into him with clear intent, his heavy gaze moving slowly down to Monty’s mouth before returning to his eyes, a slow smirk forming on his face.

Monty’s mouth is dry and his body is rushing with heat, but he can take a challenge, raise the stakes. He slides incrementally over, lifts his chin, keeps his gaze level. Miller’s smirk twitches into a genuine smile, and he lays a hand on Monty’s shoulder, curls around it. Monty puts his own hand on Miller’s waist, rubbing a thumb over the smooth, tight fabric of his shirt. Miller’s lips part, and for one dizzying second, Monty is sure Miller is going to kiss him. 

“There,” Miller says, leaning back. “Learning already.”

“Wow,” Bellamy says, and, shit, Monty had completely forgotten he was there. “So that’s how it is, huh?”

Miller ignores him. “How long ‘til, you know,” he says, “not feeding becomes an issue?”

Monty groans. “Not the f word. I’m officially banning the f word,” he says, and Miller smirks a smirk that drives fear through Monty’s body, and something else, too.

“Fine,” he says. “How long until you need to _sate your lust_.”

He says it in this ridiculous voice, slightly higher-pitched and breathy, and it’s the best and worst thing Monty’s ever heard.

“I’m officially unbanning the f word,” he says fervently, and hopes his intensity comes off as unbridled disgust, which, in fairness, it absolutely should be if Monty’s body were being at all cooperative right now. He blames that new, hungry thing inside him; it's projecting a desperate kind of want that Monty is doing his best to squash down. 

Bellamy snorts. “You should be good for a little while, right, with the suppressants you’re on?” he says, because he brought Monty a bunch of _So You’ve Manifested As An Incubus_ leaflets, and went with Monty to the initial meeting with the counsellor he's now required to see. Bellamy probably knows more about the whole thing than Monty, honestly, and Monty says as much, trying to make it a joke.

Of course, then Bellamy has to get all serious about friendship and loyalty and supporting your goddamn friends with their shit, including and especially sudden onset supernatural manifestation, and Monty is so fond of him he could burst with it.

“Thanks,” he says, cutting Bellamy off mid heartfelt speech. “I appreciate you, I really do, but I’m fucking exhausted and my bed is calling my name.”

They all get up to leave. Bellamy hugs him, and Miller says, “We’ll organise something,” and Monty laughs a tired laugh and says, “Sure.”

*

In the bright sunshine of the next day, last night feels like a fever dream. Monty doesn’t quite believe that Miller actually literally offered to teach him the art of seduction, even though he has a text that says _**friday 2pm ur place?**_ which he responded to with a thumbs up. It just doesn’t make _any sense_.

It makes even less sense when he recounts the whole bizarre, emotionally harrowing night to Harper when they get lunch between classes.

“He literally said _sate your lust_ , Harper,” Monty says, agonised. “And he put the moves on me! What was I supposed to do with that?”

Harper laughs, not for the first time. Monty has no idea why they’re best friends.

“I don’t know,” she says, “kiss him?”

“What? No, he was just,” Monty says, waving a hand, “demonstrating.”

“Come on, Monty,” Harper says. “Even you’re not that oblivious. Unless you’re exaggerating for dramatic effect, which I will not rule out,” she adds, and Monty scowls at her.

“There’s no way,” he says. He remembers, with painful clarity, how convinced he was that Miller was going to kiss him. “You’ve seen him, right? There’s _no way_.”

“Trust me,” she says, “there absolutely is a way.” Her face turns sort of serious, and she says, “Is that really why?”

“Of course,” Monty says, but he does know why they’re best friends, and it’s because they know each other better than anyone. Harper doesn’t say anything, and a few moments later, Monty sighs. “I’m an incubus, Harper. An _incubus_.”

Harper takes his hand and squeezes it, hard. “You’ve been taking the suppressants,” she says. “That isn’t what’s happening.”

“But what if it is, Harper,” Monty says dully, and he knows, logically, that his incubus powers can’t be in force, or last night would’ve gone very differently. But just the thought that he might accidentally enchant somebody into wanting to fuck him makes him want to throw up the bagel he just ate.

Harper doesn’t lie to him, or pretend things aren’t as serious as they are. Instead, she says, kind of intensely, “My offer stands. You’re my best friend and I love you, and I’d have sex with you even if it wouldn’t stop you literally dying.”

“Lucky for me you have such low standards,” Monty says, grinning, and Harper rolls her eyes, and nothing’s fixed, or anything, but his heart doesn’t feel quite so heavy. “Can we talk about your sex life now? This feels so unbalanced.”

“That's because you actually have a sex life,” Harper says dryly. “Or are trying to, anyway.”

“You're trying, right?” Monty asks, frowning a little, and Harper shrugs. 

“I don't know, dude,” she says. “I've been on what, four Tinder dates?”

“Five,” Monty corrects. “Unless you've been spinning extravagant tales of disastrous dates that never happened.”

“I've actually been lying about all of them to make you feel sorry for my shitty luck,” Harper says gravely, and Monty knocks their shoulders together. “It's just so much work, you know? And it's just. Not that great a reward at the end of it.” 

She goes quiet for a second, but it seems like she has more to say, so Monty waits her out, letting his head rest against hers. 

“I don't know if I actually like sex or not,” she says slowly. “I haven't liked it so far, but maybe it's just been bad sex? And, like. If I found the right person, maybe I'd enjoy it then. You know?”

Monty hums. “Maybe.”

“But what if I never find that person,” Harper continues, “or what if I do, but it takes, like, years, and in the meantime I'm having all this sex I just… don't… like.”

“You don't have to keep trying if you don't want to,” Monty says, “it doesn't have to be something you want,” and Harper rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, Bellamy, I'm aware asexuality is a thing,” she says. She chews her lip a little, lets out a sigh. “I don't know. That might be it, I guess? But maybe it's not, I'm just, whatever, picky or something. So if I, like, stop trying, I'm missing out? I don't know. This is silly, I don't-”

“It's not,” Monty cuts in. “This shit is hard.”

Harper sighs again, rubbing her head against Monty's. “I just feel like- like I came out of the womb knowing I was bi, right, and it's just so, like. That's just how my brain works, and it's just there.”

“This doesn't have to be the same,” Monty says, “and yeah I'm channelling Bellamy here, but that just means I'm right.”

Harper kind of slumps against him, and Monty snakes an arm around her waist, squeezing her into a sideways hug. “I know,” she says quietly, and Monty turns his head to kiss the top of her head. “I think I'm gonna... not, for a while, maybe.”

“So no more Tinder, then?” Monty asks, and Harper shakes her head. 

“Maybe we should make you an account,” she says, and as subject changes go, it's not the clumsiest. Monty lets her have it. 

“Can't hurt,” he says, and hands over his phone when Harper holds her hand out for it. He tries to watch over her shoulder, but she pushes at his cheek to turn his face away, so he gives up and steals her phone in exchange. 

He has time to take selfies with a bunch of different filters, send himself several cute animal videos from her Twitter account and get halfway to beating 2048 before Harper says, decisive, “There.”

“I can look at my own phone again?” Monty says, amused. 

“Yes,” Harper says primly, shifting so Monty can get a better look at the screen. “I'd swipe right, honestly. I definitely will if I see you.”

“If you don't super-like me our friendship is over,” Monty tells her, and Harper laughs, says, “But of course,” and Monty grins. 

*

It's not that Monty expects Miller not to make good on his word, but he's still kind of surprised when there's a knock on his door at what his phone tells him is exactly 2pm on Friday and Miller's on the other side. 

“Hey,” Monty says, trying not to let it show. Miller kind of smirks at him; Monty's not sure if that means he was successful or not. 

“Roommate out?” Miller asks, looking around the room. 

“For the rest of the year, yeah,” Monty says. “They said they were gonna find someone to replace him but they haven't yet, so.”

He spreads out his hands as if to demonstrate all the space he has to himself - that _they_ have to themselves. 

“Convenient,” Miller says. He's just standing between the two beds, hands in his pockets, looking at Monty; he looks totally at ease. Monty wonders if he's just always like that. 

“So how'd you wanna do this?” Miller asks, and Monty shrugs. 

“Whatever's, uh, easiest. Most natural? I don't know. You might not be able to tell, but I have no fucking clue what I'm doing.”

Miller laughs, but it doesn't sound mean. Monty smiles a little hesitantly back at him. 

“Your bed?” he asks, pointing to the obviously slept-in one that Monty didn't really make properly this morning. He sits when Monty nods, gesturing at the space next to him. Monty starts for it, then stops, something that might be raw panic welling up inside him. Miller's face goes suddenly serious. 

“Hey,” he says gently, “if you don't want to do this-”

“I do,” Monty rushes out, then laughs at himself. He perches on the bed next to Miller, smoothing his hands over his knees. “Just nervous, I guess.”

“Nothing wrong with being nervous,” Miller says. 

There's half a foot of distance between them, but even so, parts of Monty are extremely interested in their new proximity. That new hungry thing inside Monty has _a lot_ to say about the warm look on Miller's face, the way he's smiling kinda encouragingly at Monty. Unhelpfully, it reminds him of the way Miller had looked at Monty before, when Monty was sure for one brilliant, excruciating moment that Miller was going to kiss him. 

That’s not- that’s not what’s happening here. It can’t be what’s happening here. But that _thing_ isn’t listening to him. Monty means to back away, put a little more space between them, but as soon as that thought crystallises in his mind it’s like he’s being yanked forward, drawn along some invisible line towards Miller. Monty stops an inch from Miller’s mouth, horrified, and rips himself away. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, fuck, shit, it’s the- the sex magic, it’s totally misinterpreting this, fucking hell, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Miller’s tongue passes over his lips, and Monty is going to vibrate out of his _skin_. “It doesn't have to be a misinterpretation,” he says, voice kinda rough, and Monty sits on his hands so he can't grab Miller again. “I would've offered a practical demonstration if I thought that was something you'd be into.”

He licks his lips again, looks right into Monty’s eyes, holds his gaze. Monty can't stop hearing Harper telling him Miller was flirting with him, Miller wanted him. 

He looks back at Miller as steady as he can. Miller starts to lean in, slow like he's giving Monty time to push him away. 

Monty doesn't push him away. 

The first touch of Miller's lips is gentle, and Monty shakes, hands twitching underneath him. He matches Miller's pace, makes his own lips soft, and melts a little when Miller licks his mouth open and deepens the kiss. Monty's thrumming with need, the thing inside him demanding more, _more_ , but he resolutely ignores it, lets himself just enjoy what he's being given. He's done this much before, but not often, and Miller is good at it, his mouth thorough and sweet, his hands sweeping over Monty's jaw, his neck, his shoulders.

When Miller starts to pull back, Monty stiffens, but Miller's hands smooth down Monty's arms to curl over Monty's thighs, a reassuring pressure. Miller's fingertips just touch the backs of Monty's hands.

Monty opens his eyes and immediately regrets it; Miller's lips are wet and his eyes are dark and that _thing_ inside Monty wants to take him apart.

“What do you want,” Miller asks, his voice husky and low, and Monty hiccups out a laugh.

“If I say everything, is that too much of a cliché? I'm not sure what's required, actually, the leaflets Bellamy got me were all incredibly cisheteronormative, they should really work on that-”

“Monty,” Miller says, “what do you _want_?”

Monty breathes out slowly. “I don't know,” he says. “What do you want?”

Miller licks his lips. “Everything,” he echoes, and Monty finds himself smiling. “I could go down on you?”

“Um,” Monty says, “yes, please,” and Miller breaks into a grin that he presses into the dip between Monty's collarbones. He drags his teeth over the skin very gently and Monty gasps, arching up into it.

“Can I,” Miller says, taking Monty by the wrists. Monty isn't sure what he means until he gives just the gentlest tug, a sliver of each hand coming free from Monty’s thighs. “You don't have to-” Miller makes a complicated face, but it morphs quickly into a smirk. “Kinda hard for me to take your shirt off like this.”

Monty swallows. There's something soothing about Miller's grip on him, holding him where Miler wants him. He pulls his hands free of his thighs. It feels like a loss when Miller lets go to pull his shirt over his head, but as soon as it's gone, Miller is kissing him again, hard and deep, and Monty doesn't feel anything but want.

“You too,” Monty says, his voice a little hoarse. He tugs on Miller's shirt and Miller goes easily, and Monty's mouth grows dry with every strip of dark skin revealed, firm and toned from the workouts Monty's seen on Instagram. “ _Fuck_. You're so fucking hot, Miller.”

Miller licks his lips, says, “Nate.”

“Nate,” Monty repeats, smiling, and Nate sinks his teeth into his lower lip and presses Monty down into the bed. His skin is so soft and warm against Monty's. Monty wants more, wants to feel all of Nate against all of him, so close Nate could absorb him fully in. Monty briefly shuts his eyes, inhales deep and a little shaky.

Nate stills. “You okay?”

Monty nods, fast, but Nate doesn't look any less concerned. 

“We can stop,” Nate says, shrinking back, “now or whenever. If you don't feel like you can say it you can tap my arm, or-”

“Nate,” Monty says, “not that I don't appreciate your commitment to enthusiastic consent, but me not wanting it is really not the problem here.” He hesitates; he still doesn't want to push, but he's not sure how to make Nate understand. “I want so much. I want _too_ much.”

Nate sits back on his heels. Monty's skin burns everywhere they were touching. “I'll tell you if something's too much,” Nate says softly. “You're allowed to ask for what you want.” He bites his lip. “I want you to ask.”

“Naked,” Monty says, before he can lose his nerve. “Both of us.”

Nate's mouth quirks up. “That's, like, negative five on the Too Much scale,” he says, and Monty starts to protest about that not being the _point_ , but Nate's undone his belt and let his jeans and boxers slip down over his thighs and Monty can't form coherent thought, let alone words. Miles and miles of smooth dark skin, and Nate's dick at half mast. 

“Fuck,” Monty says, reverently, and starts wriggling out of his own jeans. He's nowhere near as smooth as Nate, but if Nate minds, it doesn’t stop him straddling Monty's hips and leaning down to kiss him. 

Nate doesn't linger long; he mouths along Monty's jaw and down his neck, across his collarbone, introduces teeth. Monty hisses, and Nate stops, and Monty says, “Good, _good_ , more, please,” and Nate bites down. Monty groans, the sound drawing out as Nate closes his mouth around the skin and sucks. Nate trails his mouth down, then does the same thing to Monty's left nipple and Monty keens, hips bucking up into nothing.

“Easy,” Nate says, soft and so sweet, “we're getting there.”

Monty bites back his protests. Nate said he should ask for what he wants, yeah, but he also clearly has a plan here, and Nate knows what he's doing. Monty trusts him.

Nate's had a hand curled around Monty's hip; Monty covers it with his own and squeezes. “I need a little help,” he says, looking right at Nate, intent. “Hold me down?”

Nate licks his lips. His hand tightens. He puts his mouth on Monty's other nipple, and he pushes back when Monty's hips rock up into his hand, and Monty goes a little dizzy with want.

Nate moves slowly down Monty's body, sucking and biting at Monty's skin, lingering at the places that draw long moans from deep inside of Monty. It feels so good he shakes with it. 

Then Nate bites at Monty's stomach and it just _hurts_. 

“Ahh, ahh, bad ahh,” Monty grimaces, and Nate licks apologetically over the skin, presses his lips to it. Monty's felt himself go tense; his body's still shaking. Nate moves carefully back up Monty's body, finds a bruise he left under Monty's ribcage and sucks gently. Monty cries out.

Nate lifts his head. “Doing okay?” he asks, and Monty groans, covers his face with his hands.

“Yeah,” he says, muffled, but then he takes a deep breath, pulls his hands away, and looks right into Nate's eyes. “I really fucking want you. Please, Nate.”

“Shit, Monty,” Nate says, like it was punched out of him. In a breath, he's at Monty's mouth, covering the rest of Monty's body with his own, and Monty makes an embarrassing noise as he grinds his dick up against Nate's stomach. He's been on the edge for so long, it feels like this'll tip him over, but Nate's moving away as quickly as he came. Monty cries out again.

“I know,” Nate says, his voice wrecked like he's the one being worked over. “We're there, okay? We're there.”

He settles between Monty's legs, wraps a loose hand around him. Monty shudders, then goes abruptly still as Nate takes him into his mouth.

“ _Nate_ ,” he gasps, and he's not going to move, he's not going to _take_ , but he needs- he _needs_ -

Nate's free hand strokes up to Monty's belly, grips one side of his waist, presses down, and Monty makes a helpless noise as he rocks up into it. Nate had been going slowly, sucking Monty down in increments, but at that he opens his mouth wider and slides down until Monty's dick hits the back of his throat. Monty's eyes roll back in his head. 

“Yeah,” he whimpers, “that's so- you're so- _fuck_ , Nate.”

Nate slides back an inch before sucking him down again, over and over until Monty's body goes liquid, pleasure shaking right through him. Nate swallows and swallows, still holding him in place.

Monty exhales so heavily when he's done, like he's letting that thing inside him out through his lungs. He knows it's not gone, only temporarily appeased, but right now he feels too peaceful to care about later.

He feels Nate settle on the bed next to him and turns his head, makes his lips soft to be kissed. Nate obliges him, his mouth hot and wet and messy, full of the taste of Monty, and Monty's smile goes too wide to keep kissing. It's still a loss when Nate moves back, and Monty opens his eyes slowly, wanting to hold onto this feeling for as long as he can.

Nate's watching him. When Monty meets his eyes, he smiles. “Good?”

Monty huffs an incredulous breath, and Nate snickers. He looks sort of unbearably smug, but Monty guesses he's earned it.

“I want,” Monty says, then swallows, swallows again. “Your turn.”

Some of the smugness leaves Nate's face. “You don't have to-”

“I want to,” Monty says. “Nate. Please?”

“Negative twenty,” Nate says, and kisses Monty until he's breathless.

Monty loses his nerve a little when actually faced, head to head, as it were, with Nate's dick. It's fucking _pretty_ , hard and leaking already, and he wants it in his mouth, like, yesterday, but also he has no idea what he's doing. And Nate knows that, wants him anyway, but Monty just- he wants Nate to feel good. He wants Nate to feel _so_ good.

Nate strokes over Monty's head, a gentle, grounding touch that skims neatly through Monty's hair and stops at Monty's jaw, gently cups his face. Monty leans into it, breathes in deep.

“You really don't-” Nate breaks off with a hiss when Monty turns his head and bites at Nate's palm. It's easy, from there, to lean down and take the head of Nate's dick into his mouth.

Nate makes a noise that Monty immediately wants to hear again, over and over until the end of time, preferably. Nate's grip on him tightens before it's suddenly gone, and Monty misses it immediately but can't find the words to ask for it back.

Instead, he sucks just a little more of Nate down, getting used to the skin-salty taste and the weight in his mouth, the way his lips have to stretch. It's not bad, it's just- a lot. Overwhelming, kind of, in a way that makes Monty feel hot all over. Monty goes down further, then tries to bob back up like Nate had. His teeth catch on Nate's foreskin and Nate hisses.

“Sorry,” Monty says, flushing hot. Nate's slipped out of his mouth but before Monty can try and fix it, Nate's sitting up and leaning towards him, kissing him softly.

“It's okay,” Nate says, and Monty rolls his eyes.

“Don't say we can stop,” he says, “I fucking know, Miller.”

Miller had been looking kinda worried, but at this he rolls his eyes, and the normality of it relaxes Monty, brings him out of it a bit, grounds him like Miller holding him had.

“Go as slow as you want,” he tells Monty. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Monty's pretty sure that's supposed to be a joke, another knot in the rope to bring Monty back, but it makes his chest feel warm, anyway. He bites his lip.

“It was good, when you were touching me,” he says. “Can you do that again?”

Nate nods. “Where?” he asks, and Monty reaches out for one of Nate's hands, places it at the nape of his neck. Nate's fingers curl around it, scratching gently through the shorthairs, and Monty sighs happily.

“Okay,” he says. 

He sucks at the head, just to hear Nate make that noise again, and it's just as heady this time around. He doesn't try and take in any more, flicks his tongue out instead, licking around and then down over the vein running along the side of Nate's dick.

“Shit,” Nate breathes. His fingers twitch, but his hand stays otherwise still on Monty's head, a solid anchor. Monty circles his hand around the base and drags his tongue down to meet it, licks around and then back up. Nate breathes out a harsh breath. The noise he makes when Monty starts moving his hand, the slide just a little bit wet, goes right through Monty. 

Monty manages to go down a little further than before, bringing his hand up to his mouth. He can't keep a rhythm going the way Nate had, has to keep pulling back to breathe in deep or fix the angle, but Nate doesn't seem to mind too much, if the way he keeps moaning is any indication. He's shaking, a little. 

“Okay?” Monty asks, glancing up to check in, and Nate looks kind of wrecked, mouth open, pupils blown wide, and Monty's body thrums, electric. He did that. 

“Yeah,” Nate manages. “You're- you're fucking amazing, Monty.”

Monty drags his thumb over the head of Nate's dick and smiles, smiles wider when that makes Nate gasp. 

“You're so sensitive,” he marvels, and Nate's eyes squeeze shut for a second. 

“Yeah,” he says, “I'm really fucking close.”

“Shit,” Monty breathes, and, “Sorry, fuck, I keep- sorry.”

Nate shakes his head. “Not going anywhere,” he reminds Monty. “I can wait.”

“I don't want you to wait,” Monty says. “I want to make you come.” 

Nate swears, hand tightening around the back of Monty's neck. Monty covers Nate's hand with his own and moves until he's closing his mouth around the head of Nate's dick. He pushes on Nate's hand, pushing his own head down a little. He looks up at Nate, expectant, and Nate groans. 

“You sure?” he asks, and there's a strain in his voice that Monty really fucking likes the sound of. 

Monty sucks, hard. Nate groans again. 

“Pinch my thigh if it's too much,” he warns, and Monty hums his assent. 

Nate is gentle when he pushes Monty down, barely moves him an inch before pulling him back. It feels so good, Nate's firm grip on him, and it feels even better when Nate starts to push further, guiding Monty just the way he needs. Monty keeps his mouth wide and his tongue flat and sucks eagerly, swallowing and swallowing around Nate. 

They get into the kind of rhythm Monty wasn't managing alone, quick and steady. Nate's shaking underneath him like he was before, when he said he was close, and he's starting to drag Monty down in quicker, shallower bursts, and Monty wants him to come so fucking badly it hurts. The thing inside of him is as desperate as Nate sounds. 

“Monty,” Nate chokes out, and then he's pulling Monty off of him entirely. Monty doesn't have time to protest; Nate's hand's already flying on his dick, and a second later he's coming all over his own hand and stomach, groaning long and low. 

The thing inside Monty roars. Monty's leaning forward before he's conscious of doing so, licking Nate's hand, sucking Nate's fingers into his mouth to clean them. Semen tastes kind of gross, it turns out, but Nate makes a high keening noise and that thing settles, reshapes into low, pleased warmth. 

“Jesus, Monty,” Nate says weakly, and tugs Monty up to kiss him. Monty kisses back, sloppy and open-mouthed. He's grinding into the mess on Nate's stomach, almost all the way to hard again, and he could come just like this, probably, but he absolutely does not protest when Nate gets a hand around him. The slide of his hand is slick and dirty and so, so smooth, and it isn't long before Monty's gasping into Nate's neck, shuddering all over again. 

“That,” he says, reverent, “was so fucking _good_.”

Nate laughs softly. One of his hands has made its way into Monty's hair, scratching gently at his scalp. “Not bad for your first time, eh,” he says, a little teasing. 

Monty hums happily. “Not that I have anything to compare it to,” he says, “but it was pretty great.”

“Glad to hear,” Nate says, and it sounds more sincere than he meant it to, probably. Monty gets it. He's still floaty and loose and warm from the inside out; he's pretty sure he could say some too-sincere things too, if he let himself. 

As it is, he sits up with no little reluctance and wobbles to the tiny sink, Nate's soft laughter following him. He comes back with a wet washcloth and wipes both their bodies clean, tossing it away when he's done. Nate gives Monty a look like he's extremely judging him, and Monty responds with a winning smile. Nate kisses him. It's soft, gentle, almost, and Monty wants to sink into it, to never move away. 

He makes himself pull back. Miller was helping him, Miller was doing him a favour, and Monty has no right to want _more_ from him. That thing, that horrible thing, is roaring inside of him, loud enough that he can't really ignore it, has to just feel it, it and the complementary lingering shame. 

“Thanks for the demonstration,” Monty says, trying to find that smile again. “This was fun.”

“Any time,” Miller says, like he means it. 

“Really?”

Miller shrugs. “If you want,” he says, like there is any way Monty _wouldn't_ want. “Easier than the alternatives.”

“I guess,” Monty says, wary. “Do _you_ want?”

Miller breaks into a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “This was fun.”

“Yeah,” Monty agrees, trying to keep the relief out of his returning smile. 


End file.
